Tales of the Old World (92 page)

“His neck is broken,” he uttered flatly.

“He was with us in the Lands of the Dead,” Captain Bastion hissed anxiously
into his lord’s ear.

“I know that,” snapped the count.

Bastion stalked away, clearly disturbed. He went to the window for some air:
Rogan was already beginning to stink. He looked through the thin opening and saw
something to take his mind off his dead comrade. “We have visitors,” he said.

Count Gunther and Garrant looked over to him.

Bastion’s expression was severe as he peered outwards. “They are knights of
Morr.” It was a bad omen.

“Remove the body and gather the knights,” ordered the count, a grim feeling
clutching at him. “We’ll meet them in the town square.”

The templars of Morr rode wearily towards the gates of Galstadt; they had
travelled through the night in horrendous conditions and were at the end of
their endurance. They passed numerous workers as they went. Mikael noticed the
looks of fear, mistrust and even hatred as the men paused in their labours to
regard the Black Knights.

“It is man’s nature to fear mortality,” Sigson, who was riding alongside the
young templar, told him. “They fear us and so they hate and distrust us.”

“It is our greatest weapon,” Reiner’s voice was like chilling sleet, from the
head of the group. “Never forget that.”

Mikael eyed him carefully and was silent. There was little that escaped the
captain’s attention. It frightened the young knight.

“A warning, templars,” intoned Lenchard who led the party, his voice powerful
even through the downpour. “The people of Galstadt are devout Sigmarites, their
knights are of the Order of the Fiery Heart; they are their protectors and are
not well known for their tolerance of other faiths, particularly Morr
worshippers.”

“We come to them as allies, though,” said Valen, nonplussed. He tightened his
grip on the company standard, partly from the slickness caused by the rain and
partly to reassert the grip on his faith, of which the banner was a symbol.

“They will not see it that way. Tread carefully, that is all.”

The templars reached the outer gates of Galstadt, a small party of guards
watching them intently, through the driving rain, from atop a high wall.

“Who are you and what is your business?” one of the guards asked, shouting to
be heard. He wore a simple grey tunic, leather armour and pot-helmet, and
carried a hooked halberd.

“I am Dieter Lenchard, an emissary of Sigmar’s holy church,” the witch hunter
said, brandishing a talisman etched with the twin-tailed comet. “Open the gate,”
he demanded.

The guard called below and the gate swung open slowly.

The Black Knights filed through into a small walled courtyard, which was
little more than a staging area. There were stables on either side, each
protected by a short wooden roof. A second gate at the far end of the courtyard,
a stout-looking gatehouse appended to it, led into the town proper. As they
entered, the guards waiting for them retreated fearfully and made the sign of
Sigmar.

Reiner could barely hide his contempt as the templars of Morr and the witch
hunter dismounted, allowing their horses to be led to the stables by grooms.

“Follow me,” Lenchard told the knights, bidding a guard to open the second
gate and walking out of the courtyard and into the town itself.

Mere feet into Galstadt, the streets thronging with dour looking people, a
beggar stumbled into Reiner, dropping a gnarled stick. The captain reached out
and grabbed the wretch’s arm.

“My apologies noble lord,” the beggar said, from beneath a thick black hood.
The poor creature was obviously blind and pawed at the knight to get his
bearings.

Reiner released his grip, disgust on his face, and watched coldly as the
beggar slumped to his knees and clawed around in the dirt, searching for his
walking stick. Mercifully, he found it quickly and shuffled off into the
rain-soaked crowds.

Mikael bit back his anger. Reiner despised the weak and the poor. To him they
were little better than the foul creatures they hunted. “A weak body leads to a
weak mind,” was Reiner’s creed. “That way there is only darkness.”

The remembered words of the doctrine in his thoughts, Mikael followed the
rest of the knights as they made their way further into Galstadt. When they
reached the town square, they stopped. Before them were six mounted knights.
They wore half-armour, with the symbol of a heart wreathed in flames over their
breast and left shoulder. Their swords were drawn.

“What have you embroiled us in witch hunter?” Sigson hissed accusingly.

Lenchard ignored him, instead addressing the mounted knights. “I seek an
audience with Count Gunther Halstein,” he began, “on a matter of some import.”

“I am he,” one of the knights, his armour slightly more ornate and arrayed
with decorative gold filigree, said from the middle of the group. It was the
count. The man had a regal bearing and wore a closely cropped beard that showed
signs of premature grey. His eyes were haunted by dark shadows and betrayed the
austere facade, as he regarded the strangers suspiciously.

“What is this matter of which you speak?” Count Gunther asked.

Lenchard held the count’s gaze. “A man called Karl Krieger,” he said.

Count Halstein’s face darkened briefly, then a mask of indifference slipped
over it. “He was executed this very morning for crimes of heresy, after
interrogation by witch hunters. Why should I be concerned about a dead man?”

“Because he has escaped and I was to be his interrogator.”

The count was unable to keep the shock and fear from his face, this time. He
instantly thought of Rogan, dead in the tower.

“Holy Sigmar,” he breathed, realising what had happened at once. “He’s
already here.”

Rogan’s body lay on a stout wooden table in one of the keep’s halls. It was a
sparse chamber with a lofty ceiling, crossed with thick wooden beams. Faded
portraits and tarnished militaria clung to the walls. A dust clogged arras hung
down one side of the room, on sharp hooks. The dead knight had been stripped of
his apparel. A blanket covered the lower half of his body.

Count Gunther and Captain Bastion presided over the body on one side of the
table, while on the other Sigson examined the dead knight, the witch hunter
having convinced the count that the priest of Morr might be able to learn
something useful. Gunther had refused communication with the corpse though.

Reiner, Mikael and the other knights of Morr waited patiently behind Sigson.
The warrior priest conducted his work in silence. Mikael caught the dark glances
of the Sigmarites—Garrant and two others waiting in the shadows at the edge of
the hall—and saw they were still armed. The tension was almost palpable. He
didn’t need the prescience of Morr to tell him there was danger here. And there
was a stench about the place too. Perhaps this was a sign from his god, for it
reeked of death.

“Strangulation,” Sigson asserted, pointing out the lividity around the neck.
He too had stripped out of his breastplate and arm greaves. He moved the head to
one side, inspecting the cheek. “No mark,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?” Count Gunther asked.

“Krieger has killed two already, that we know of,” Sigson told him, “and each
had a mark carved into the cheek.”

“Perhaps he was interrupted,” Bastion suggested.

“Whatever the cause, Bastion, I want Krieger found and brought before me,”
Gunther ordered, before returning his attention to the priest. “My men and I are
tired and their forbearance is stretched to the limit. This is over,” he said,
pulling the blanket back over Rogan’s body, much to Sigson’s chagrin.

“Garrant, conduct a full search of the keep. I want double watches come
nightfall.”

Garrant uttered his compliance and left the room.

“And what would you have us do, count?” Reiner said. It was the first time
he’d spoken since entering the keep.

“I will make a barrack house available, other than that keep out of our way.”

Reiner nodded, but his cold eyes never left Count Gunther’s face.

“I have some questions,” Lenchard said from the shadows then added,
addressing Reiner, “Your men look weary. I suggest you get them to the
barracks.”

“Halbranc,” the captain of Morr said, without averting his icy gaze from the
witch hunter, “you heard Herr Lenchard.”

Halbranc nodded and looked over to Sigson.

“I’ll follow shortly,” said the priest, washing his hands in a clay bowl.
Reiner showed no signs of movement. Clearly, he wanted to hear what the witch
hunter had to say.

With that, Halbranc and the other knights left the chamber.

The barrack house was at the end of a long corridor, past the keep’s training
ground. Mikael watched as knights paired off and sparred with each other using
wooden swords. He felt a sudden pain in his skull—it had happened before, in
Hochsleben, just before he’d been attacked by Merrick. Wincing, Mikael saw four
Sigmarite knights approaching.

Halbranc tensed beside him, but they continued towards the barrack house.

As they passed, the Sigmarites regarded Mikael and his comrades darkly, and
one leant out, jarring Vaust’s shoulder deliberately.

“Little better than necromancers,” the Sigmarite muttered.

“What did you say?” Vaust demanded, whirling on his heel to confront him.

Mikael went to lightly restrain him, but Vaust shook the young templar off.
“No, speak up!”

The Sigmarite, a thin-faced, white-haired youth flashed a contemptible smile.
“Those who consort with the dead are not to be trusted,” he spat.

Vaust drew his sword, Valen likewise behind him. Mikael tried to stand
between them, but the Sigmarites had drawn their blades too.

“Knights of Morr, sheath your swords,” Halbranc warned, placing his massive
form between them. Even the belligerent Sigmarites backed down before the giant
templar. But the white-haired Sigmarite felt the presence of his fellows behind
him and found his courage. Eyes filled with violent intent, he was about to act
when a command stopped him.

“Put down your sword!” Garrant bellowed, stalking towards them. “What is
going on here?” he demanded angrily.

“Nothing, just a misunderstanding,” Halbranc said. “We’ll be on our way,” he
added, holding Vaust hard by the back of his neck and turning him around. Mikael
followed suite, and as the knights were walking away he heard Garrant mutter.
“The sooner, the better.”

Halbranc stopped. An uneasy silence filled the corridor. Mikael heard the
leather of the giant’s gauntlets crack into a fist. He could feel the gaze of
Garrant and his fellows boring into him. Halbranc released his grip. They walked
away. Mikael breathed again.

It was night. The scrape of Halbranc’s whetstone against his sword blade
penetrated the frustrated silence. He sat on the end of a small cot and worked
hard at the weapon—a mighty zweihander and one of several blades he carried—until its edge was razor-keen. He seemed lost in the routine of it as if
scraping out past sins that tarnished his blade. Mikael knew little about the
giant templar, save that he was a mercenary once and had fought in many armies,
across many continents. Halbranc never spoke of it. Perhaps he didn’t care to.

The two brothers, Valen and Vaust, were sitting on stools at a low wooden
table in the middle of the room. They had found a deck of cards and were playing
out a game of skulls. Like Halbranc, they were restless, preferring action
instead of prolonged bouts of inactivity.

Reiner and Sigson were still absent, doubtless conversing with the witch
hunter, Lenchard. None of them had slept.

Mikael sat on the opposite cot to Halbranc, his attention on the window next
to him. Outside, in the flickering light of several lanterns, the shadows of
workers still toiled. As he stared up into the blackened sky, Mikael felt his
eyelids grow heavy as a dream engulfed him…

A great sun burned down upon the barren desert.

Mikael was alone in a mighty desert that seemed like it was on fire. Yet he
felt no heat or wind.

Cresting a mighty rise he looked across a deep valley. An old man dressed in
black robes was standing upon a high dune. With a gnarled finger he beckoned
Mikael across the valley towards him.

Mikael took a tentative step forward. His foot plunged into a mire of sand
and suddenly the entire side of the dune was shifting collapsing beneath him!

He fell, tumbling down the side of the valley. Spitting sand from his mouth,
he looked up into the sunlight. The man had gone.

A sudden trembling began beneath him. Mikael scrambled back, clawing handfuls
of sand as he did so. A great spike pierced the valley floor before him,
reaching ever higher into the burning sky. A tower of obsidian followed, surging
upwards, pushing out great waves of sand. Slowly, a huge black skull emerged
like some terrible, mythic beast. Rivulets of sand flowed from the gargantuan
eye and nose sockets and as the mouth broke through the churning dunes created
by its emergence, a huge black door was revealed. It opened and there stood a
towering figure.

Its mummified flesh bore the taint of ages and it wore the armour of a knight
of Sigmar. It reached out towards Mikael with a filthy talon-like hand. The
creature’s mouth opened and uttered, “Setti-Ra…”

Mikael woke with a sudden start. There was a commotion outside. Halbranc was
on his feet, a short sword in his hand, going for the door. Valen had fallen
asleep at the card table but sprang up, alert at the sound. Vaust was nowhere to
be seen.

Grabbing his own blade, Mikael went to join Halbranc. He pulled the door open
and saw three Sigmarite knights running away down the corridor. Another knight
was running towards the barracks. It was Vaust.